


Vanilla

by azriona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Corsetry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory Lestrade had always considered himself to be somewhat boring.  Pedestrian.  Predictable.  For lack of a better term, <i>vanilla</i>.   </p>
<p>And then he met Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vanilla

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dirty_Corza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dirty_Corza/gifts).



> Written for DirtyCorzaHarkness for the [Mystrade Summer Exchange](http://summermystradeexchange.tumblr.com/). Huge thanks to the usual suspects of earlgreytea68 for the beta and wendmr and kizzia for the Brit-pick; they are all three awesome and deserve more cupcakes than can ever be baked.
> 
> I asked Corza if she had a specific prompt; she requested corsets, as there’s not nearly enough corset!fic in the world. While I was doing the research for the fic, I found [this article on corsets and confidence](http://lucycorsetry.com/2012/12/11/corsets-posture-and-confidence-its-not-all-about-size/#more-1225), and it was a major influence in how I approached writing the story. Which is to say: I really, really hope that Corza likes what follows.

Gregory Lestrade had always considered himself to be somewhat boring. Pedestrian. Predictable. For lack of a better term, _vanilla_. He woke up at half six, showered with whatever shampoos and body washes happened to have been on sale that week, dressed in a plain shirt with dark trousers, drank a coffee with one sugar and a dash of milk, ate whatever bready breakfast product was closest to hand. He was at the Tube station closest to his flat by 7.20am, and at his desk at New Scotland Yard by 8. 

The only thing Greg thought could be considered the least bit interesting about him, really, was his bisexuality, but it was 2010, and even _that_ wasn’t terribly interesting anymore. Not with parades and marches and divorces and a quarter of the force having commitment ceremonies and children when twenty years before such things were the stuff of fairy tales and wishful thinking. 

Nope. Gregory Lestrade was about as vanilla as they came. Sometimes he regretted it; most of the time, he didn’t think much on it. No tattoos, no piercings, no photographs of his non-existent wild punk years tucked away in a desk drawer. There was absolutely, 100%, nothing that would give anyone reason to raise an eyebrow. Boring, plain, _vanilla_. 

Enter Mycroft. 

* 

Greg was never entirely sure what Mycroft Holmes saw in him. Of all the things Mycroft Holmes surely looked for in a mate, vanilla couldn’t have been at the top of the list. Greg wasn’t sure what anyone else would call Mycroft, but he had the feeling that if Mycroft had been asked, he would have called _himself_ vanilla. The idea was laughable. Mycroft was sticky caramel; he was hot fudge; he was chopped walnuts with whipped cream and a cherry, sprinkles on the side and he’ll decide later about the mint-chocolate chips. Mycroft Holmes was not _vanilla_. 

For their first date, Mycroft had taken Greg to a posh restaurant where they’d had a private table situated at least twenty feet away from any other customer. Candlelight and fancy linen napkins which the waiters shook open with a snap and dropped on their laps; three types of wine and four kinds of forks, and more china on the table than Greg actually _owned_. There hadn’t been menus; Mycroft simply asked if Greg was allergic to anything (though even the question seemed like mere formality; Mycroft hadn’t batted an eye when Greg admitted an intolerance for shellfish) and then ordered for them both, in perfect French. 

The food was divine, easily the most delicious and fanciest meal Greg had eaten in years. Possibly his entire life, and he wasn’t sure if the display of grandeur wasn’t meant to frighten him off, or provoke an entirely predictable and condemning reaction. It was a test of some sort, of that Greg was certain. At the end of the night, when Mycroft dropped him off at his flat (which seemed smaller and garishly lit by comparison now), the kiss was less perfunctory than relished; less questioning than already assured of the answer. Greg wasn’t sure who initiated it, but Mycroft leaned Greg against his door and pressed close in a way that surely looked possessive to an outsider. To Greg, it felt more as if he were being claimed. He broke the kiss to say, “My turn next time.” 

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow, and said, “If you like.” 

It was enough. Greg supposed whatever test had been administered, he had passed it. 

“Do you own clothes that aren’t suits?” 

“Some.” 

“Great. Wear those.” 

They went to a football match. Mycroft dressed in trousers, pressed to within an inch of their lives with a crease sharp enough to kill – useful considering it was Arsenal and Tottenham, really – and a shirt covered by a knitted jumper. Mycroft drank the beer Greg handed him, and ate the sausages and mash at the pub afterwards, and Greg found, to his great surprise, that Mycroft actually knew the difference between the offside rule, equalizers, and a scorpion kick. 

At the end of the night, Greg found himself on his doorstep, with the powerful urge to drag Mycroft straight to his bedroom and do very….unvanilla things to him with his tongue. 

“It was a lovely evening, thank you,” Mycroft said, but Greg was staring at his throat, and wondering what Mycroft would sound like as he licked the skin there, where it wrapped around his collarbone, the divot at the base of his neck, the bump where his Adam’s apple protruded. 

“The rain ruined your shoes,” Greg reminded him. 

“They’re only shoes,” said Mycroft, and kissed him, and that was just fine. Mycroft’s lips were cold and his tongue was warm; he pressed Greg up against the doorpost. He kissed Greg deeply, with great assurance and confidence, and Mycroft’s hands rested on Greg’s skin as if he knew what he was doing, knew what he was _wanting_ to be doing. They slipped down Greg’s collar and to his chest, in between the buttons and out; Mycroft’s thumbs flicked against Greg’s nipples, then circled as the skin puckered and grew hard. Greg’s breath hitched in his throat; he settled his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders, ran down his arms, and had just found his way to Mycroft’s waist when Mycroft abruptly pulled away. 

“Good night, Gregory,” said Mycroft, stepping back from the embrace. His cheeks were red, and he was breathing hard, almost gasping. Though he held himself away, he kept his hands on Greg’s arms, as if he couldn’t let go of him just yet. As if he was holding onto Greg as a reminder of something he wasn’t going to allow himself to have. Greg blinked at him, back still against the door. 

“Mycroft—" 

“Another night, perhaps,” said Mycroft, and if he’d been affected by the kiss before, he looked perfectly put-together now. Except, maybe, for a certain brightness in his eyes and a tell-tale flush to his skin. Greg waited until Mycroft had disappeared from the stairwell, before going into his flat and peering out the window, just in time to see the other man get into the sleek black car. 

Mycroft paused, and glanced up at Greg’s window. It was dark and there was still some rain falling, but even in the dim light, Greg saw the longing on Mycroft’s face, and thought of the way Mycroft had pulled, reluctantly, away from him. 

No. Not vanilla at all. 

* 

It took another three dates before Greg came close to solving the mystery that was Mycroft Holmes, for Mycroft was surprisingly shy about some things, even with the kisses in the dark. In public, Mycroft was controlled and practiced. Smooth like caramel fudge, sharp like the snap of peanut brittle, straight and tall and Greg hurried to keep up with him, even as Mycroft slowed his pace to match. Mycroft was clearly practiced in the art of seduction, both physical and mental, and Greg started to enjoy the roadblocks, just for the fun of watching Mycroft dodge them. 

A serial killer, a particularly ugly kidnapping, a series of doctor’s appointments, and Mycroft’s brother. Through all of them, Mycroft remained patiently on the side, and if Greg looked out from the corner of his eye, he could see the CCTV cameras following him. Even when Greg might have been able to get away from work and spend some time with Mycroft, he wasn’t pressed. He was only watched, and Greg knew it – and what was more, he had every idea that Mycroft knew that he knew it. 

The third date after the aborted kiss, Mycroft pulled Greg into an unlit alley, and pushed him up against the disgusting brickwork. He hovered above Greg, inches from kissing him, so close that Greg could taste the mint on his breath. 

“Stop playing games with me,” said Mycroft. 

“I’m not the one playing games,” retorted Greg, and reached up to kiss him. To his great relief (and no small amount of astonishment), Mycroft responded, and kissed him thoroughly. Greg melted into it, and gripped Mycroft’s arms to hold him in. Mycroft didn’t seem to pull away – not at first. When Greg began to move his hands up and down, he felt Mycroft’s muscles tense…and then relax as his fingers drifted up, to entangle themselves in Mycroft’s thin hair. 

“What’s your mystery?” asked Greg aloud, and Mycroft pulled away then. 

“There’s no mystery around me.” 

“Bollocks.” Greg glanced above. “There are no cameras in this alley.” 

“Why do you think I chose it?” 

Greg chuckled. “And you say there’s no mystery with you.” 

A pause, so tiny that Greg only knew it existed because of the way Mycroft’s muscles flexed under his fingers. “Not for you.” 

It was enough. Greg kissed him again, and there was a bit of an argument about where they’d go (since the disgusting alley was truly disgusting), and they ended up at Greg’s flat, simply because it was closer and more convenient, if not more comfortable. 

“It’s clean,” offered Greg, a bit lamely, as Mycroft looked around the rather dismal interior. 

“Entirely serviceable,” said Mycroft, and he nodded toward the loo. “Might I…?” 

“Of course.” 

Mycroft took longer than Greg had thought he would – not that he minded, it gave him a chance to hide the laundry under the bed and straighten the duvet. He shoved the cockeyed drawers shut, threw a pair of shoes into the wardrobe with such force they bounced, and gave up entirely on trying to neaten the sitting room beyond piling up the newspapers and magazines. He was in the little kitchenette, having just turned on the kettle, when Mycroft emerged from the lavatory. His blue shirt was unbuttoned, and his boxer-briefs concealed very little of the very obvious erection that strained against the thin cotton. Somehow, Mycroft seemed smaller than before, less confident, more cautious as he stepped around the corner. Greg had heard him emerge, but still Mycroft hesitated for a moment before clearing his throat to let him know he was there. 

When Greg looked up, Mycroft was biting his lip. His hand rested on the doorway, fingers curled slightly; Greg could see them almost tapping against the wood, not impatiently but with some amount of trepidation. As if Mycroft was preparing to slip away, out of sight again. 

“Oh,” said Greg. “I was…tea?” 

“No,” said Mycroft, as if he had only just decided, and he took a breath, and let it out, hesitatingly slowly, carefully, with a bit of a stutter. 

“Thank Christ,” said Greg, and turned the kettle off. 

Mycroft was pliant under his hands, shy and cautious. Greg covered him and kissed him, ran his hands along his skin and threaded their fingers together. It was lovemaking at its very simplest, warm fudge-covered vanilla bean crisp cookie crunch, and when Mycroft cried out, Greg kissed away the worries at the corners of his eyes and soothed him with whispered words in his ears, and they fell asleep wrapped up in each other. 

* 

They dozed for a little while, and when Greg woke up in the middle of the night, he was both amazed and not one bit surprised to find Mycroft still next to him, his arm resting on Greg’s chest, possessive in a way he hadn’t been when awake. It was pleasant, really; the last time Greg had woken with someone else in the bed had been with his wife, and she’d always huddled on the far side of the mattress, cocooned in the duvet: untouchable, unreachable. Greg would have liked to get up to use the loo, but he didn’t want to chance having Mycroft wake while he was gone and disappear before he came back. 

Mycroft disappearing when Greg’s eyes were closed – it was a strong possibility, after all. Greg still wasn’t entirely sure why Mycroft was there in the first place, why he kept asking Greg to dinner and the opera and was actually _willing_ to come back to his rubbish flat for what was really very good sex. Not spectacular, but far and above merely passable, and Greg knew now that Mycroft was, above all things, a quick study. 

He also had the idea that Mycroft was well and truly asleep. 

“Mycroft?” 

Mycroft didn’t respond; he frowned in his sleep for a moment, and then rolled a little bit away, just enough to let Greg slip out from under his arms. He curled in on himself, his shoulders hunched, as if trying to hide from Greg’s gaze. Greg sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, determined his chances of getting to the loo and back before Mycroft woke up all the way and went for the speedy exit. Greg had no doubt that Mycroft _would_ take the chance to go, if he found it – and Greg didn’t want to let him. He wanted the chance to improve on the earlier performance. 

At least a kiss goodbye, if nothing else. 

The pressure on his bladder was worse, sitting up. Greg carefully eased himself off the bed; Mycroft didn’t move. Greg went into the loo and shut the door with a click before he turned on the light, and so he didn’t see the items hanging on the hook behind the door until he’d finished washing his hands and was about to step back outside. 

That Mycroft had hung up his suit jacket and trousers didn’t surprise Greg in the least. Mycroft wasn’t a man to leave a suit, bespoke or off-the-rack, on the floor. His tie, slung over the collar in order to keep it from creasing, was also something Greg was prepared to see. Greg didn’t care about clothes normally; they existed to cover the body against exposure to the elements, and the only concession to fashion Greg had ever made was being careful not to wear brown shoes with a black suit. Even so, Greg knew an expensive suit when he saw one, if only because expensive suits always made his own look wrinkled and threadbare in comparison. 

What did surprise Greg were the two cream-colored ribbons trailing out from under Mycroft’s jacket. 

The ribbons were slick against his fingers. He trailed his fingers up, let the ribbon guide his fingers under Mycroft’s suit jacket. The silk tickled his skin gently, lighter than air, and Greg’s breath caught in his throat as his hand disappeared under the heavy wool of the suit, gliding out of sight, and the material had just begun to crumple as Greg continued his search for the ribbon’s source when he heard a footstep on the other side of the door and then Mycroft’s voice ringing out, hoarsely, a strange mix of worry and sleep: “Gregory?” 

“Here,” said Greg, and his own voice sounded odd in his ears. Strangled, in a way; Greg’s hand dropped from under Mycroft’s clothes, and he tried to shake the strange feeling of denial as he opened the door. Mycroft stood on the other side; the light from the lavatory spilled into the hallway. In the half second before Mycroft put up his guard, Greg thought he saw worry in his eyes – but a moment later, it was only the dim awareness of a man just woken, and now slightly confused as to his surroundings. 

“I should go,” said Mycroft, and Greg stepped out of the lavatory, the feel of the ribbons still on his skin. He slid his hand along Mycroft’s neck, trailed his fingers along the skin there, smooth as silk, and was pleased to see Mycroft shiver in response. 

“No,” said Greg, because watching Mycroft’s eyes flutter closed, watching the ripple of his skin as he curled his hand behind his neck, made Greg feel powerful, protective, possessive. He leaned forward and kissed Mycroft, without pulling the other man into him, and Mycroft’s mouth opened easily into the kiss. Mycroft was warm, still a little sleepy, faded mint and strawberries. For a few moments, it was all there was: just the soft suckling sounds of the kiss in the spilled light from the lav. Greg’s hand on Mycroft’s neck, and Mycroft’s hands cautiously making their way to Greg’s waist, where they rested, curved around his skin. 

“Come to bed,” said Greg. He kissed Mycroft, and thought of the ribbons, the secret path up beneath Mycroft’s clothes. He trailed his hand down Mycroft’s spine, light and gentle, half tickle and half caress, and Mycroft’s head fell forward onto Greg’s chest as he shuddered. 

“Stay until morning,” said Greg into Mycroft’s hair, just above his ear, and when Mycroft said, “Yes,” his breath fluttered against Greg’s chest. 

Greg led him back to bed, laid Mycroft down, left fluttering kisses up Mycroft’s chest to his neck. He thought of the ribbons under the wool, and licked, cautiously, gently, and when Mycroft chuckled in half delight, half surprise, Greg caught the laughter in a kiss, holding himself above Mycroft, so that only their mouths touched. Mycroft arched up to him. 

“Wait,” said Greg, and started his slow descent, down Mycroft’s body, leaving a trail of feather-light kisses as he went. 

“Greg—" 

“Shh.” 

Greg shifted on the bed, kissed and licked and nipped, sometimes closing his lips over his teeth, sometimes leaving his teeth bare to scrape against Mycroft’s skin. Mycroft’s hands wove themselves into Greg’s hair, light pressure holding him in, and Greg found his goal under the duvet. He couldn’t see Mycroft’s face, not with the duvet over his head, but that was all right. Hidden from view – hidden from _Mycroft’s_ view, Greg was free to do as he liked, and he left a long, wet stripe up Mycroft’s cock, felt rather than saw it grow hard and thick under his tongue, and pressed his nose into the salty-caramel scent at the base. When he finally took Mycroft’s cock into his mouth – hot and hard and full – he heard Mycroft’s soft inhale of breath. 

“Greg,” said Mycroft, his voice cracked, and Greg began to suck, just to hear Mycroft groan in response. Mycroft pulled his legs up, to cradle Greg between them, and then around his torso, holding him in, wrapping him close, a snug and steady reminder, and Greg rested gentle fingers on Mycroft’s hips, stroking feather-light touches across his skin, until Mycroft came with a gasp and a stifled cry. 

“Someday,” said Greg, “you’re going to shout for me.” 

Mycroft only smiled, and tucked his face into the crook of Greg’s neck as they snuggled together, and fell asleep. 

* 

When Greg woke up again, Mycroft was dressed, sitting beside him on the bed. 

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, and he meant it. The suit fit perfectly; wool with a cotton shirt underneath, and Greg wondered if the silk ribbons were tucked away somewhere, or had been part of a strange dream. 

“Work?” 

“Yes. I’ll be half an hour late as it is. Your fault, of course.” 

“My apologies to the Queen, in that case. What time is it?” 

“Half six.” 

He was nearly late himself. “Bugger.” Greg pushed himself to sitting, and Mycroft stole a kiss, taking control of Greg’s mouth as if he’d had it all along. He tasted of Greg’s toothpaste; it was an odd sensation, and Greg chuckled. When Mycroft pulled back, he was smiling as if he understood the joke. 

“Gregory…” 

“You’ll ring when you can,” said Greg firmly, because for a moment, Mycroft looked as if he was about to confess something, and Greg didn’t want to hear it. Might have been afraid to hear it, but he was afraid to examine it too closely himself. “Go save the world from itself.” 

“That’s not what I do.” 

Greg smiled and reached up to touch Mycroft’s face. “You’re lying.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 

“You look right into my eyes when you’re telling a lie you’re desperate for me to believe. When you’re telling the truth, you’re shy about it.” 

Mycroft turned his head and kissed the inside of Greg’s palm. “You know me so well?” 

“I’m beginning to,” said Greg, and he sat up in the bed. “I’d like to know you better.” 

“I’ll have to work on my tells, then.” 

Greg laughed and swung his legs out of the bed, heading for the loo. “You’re allowed a few secrets.” 

Mycroft didn’t move from the bed. “Am I?” 

“We all are,” replied Greg, thinking of cream-colored ribbons under wool, of the way Mycroft had wrapped him with his legs, of soft kisses on hard skin, and the way his insides had twisted and pulled taut with the pleasure of it. 

Secrets. Yes. Secrets were good. 

By the time he came out of the shower, Mycroft was gone. 

* 

Sherlock knew within five minutes; his eyes rolled and he let out a heaving sigh. John glanced from Sherlock to Greg, unsure what Sherlock was implying. 

“Must you?” Sherlock asked Greg, wearily. 

“I don’t think it’s any of your business,” said Greg. 

“Knowing is hardy my fault, when it’s so tediously _obvious_. Have a care for discretion, Inspector.” 

“I’m not sure…” interjected John. 

“Consider yourself lucky,” said Sherlock, and swept away, his coat flapping behind him. 

John glanced between them again, and then his eyes widened in understanding. “You and Mycroft—" 

Greg nodded and tried to ignore the flush at the back of his neck. 

John thought for a moment. “Er…congratulations?” 

“That’ll do,” said Greg, and the smile slipped out before he could stop it. 

“Yes, thank you, John! That’ll do!” shouted Sherlock crossly from across the room. “If you don’t mind, there’s a beheaded man I need to examine!” 

“And they say romance is dead,” said Greg. 

“Better you than me, mate,” said John, and went to join Sherlock, careful to avoid the puddles of blood. 

Sherlock didn’t mention it again, and Greg didn’t bring it up – hadn’t particularly wanted to bring it up in the first place, come to that. And as the case dragged on, and there was no message from Mycroft, Greg began to feel as if his entire world was the case, red raspberry-sauce blood on white ice-cream snow. Everything with Mycroft back in his flat could have been a sort of make-believe, a pretty fantasy tied up in cream-colored ribbon. 

Sherlock had barely finished giving Greg everything he needed to arrest the suspect (including the suspect himself, locked in a cupboard where he couldn’t hurt anyone else), when he had whipped out his mobile, and sent a text into the ether. 

“What’s that?” asked Greg, eyeing the mobile as Sherlock slipped it back into his pocket. 

“John! Chinese!” called Sherlock. 

Greg would have asked again, except his own mobile rang with an incoming call. 

“Congratulations on the conclusion of your case,” said Mycroft Holmes. 

“How did you know?” asked Greg, but his eyes followed Sherlock as he left the scene. “No, never mind. Why—?” 

“I didn’t wish to disturb you,” said Mycroft. 

“You disturb me just by existing. Not ringing – that was more distraction than had you rung.” 

A pause; Greg could hear Mycroft’s hesitation in the silence. “I’ll remember that. For now – when you’re ready, let me know. I’d like to take you to dinner.” 

“Mycroft, it’s eleven at night. I won’t be done until one or two.” 

“Eating isn’t required, of course.” 

Greg laughed. 

* 

Scones and butter and clotted cream and strawberry jam, sticky and sweet and utterly perfect at two in the morning, racing through nighttime London in the back of Mycroft’s car. Warm milk with sugar and vanilla and a touch of coffee for flavor, just enough caffeine that although it didn’t counteract the sleepy properties of the warm milk, it did give Greg enough awareness to see the relaxed and relieved light in Mycroft’s eyes, the lines in his face that showed tension and worry, but were smoothed over now. 

“You shouldn’t worry about me,” said Greg in between scones. 

“But I do.” 

“I’m boring. Nothing ever happens to me.” 

“You aren’t boring.” 

“Compared to some.” 

“No,” said Mycroft, smiling. 

Gregory swallowed the last bite of scone, relishing the crunchy bit from the top of the clotted cream he liked best. “I thought you were taking me to dinner.” 

“Are you hungry?” 

“Not anymore.” 

“Good,” said Mycroft, and kissed him. The car raced down the road through a sleeping London, but inside Gregory was wide awake, hands entwined with Mycroft’s. It gave Greg an odd sense of being grounded while at the same time hurtling toward some unknown destination, and when Mycroft’s lips left his mouth, traveled down his neck and chest to his cock, Greg threw his head back and thought that this must be what it felt like to free-fall toward the Earth. 

* 

“Hear Lestrade’s got a boyfriend,” said one of the sergeants standing by the coffee. 

“Yeah, they’re sweet,” said Donovan, not interested, and the conversation turned to the upcoming departmental footie match with the local fire station. 

* 

Mycroft’s suits: smooth brushed wool, soft to the touch, running under his fingers, soaking up the smoky cigar back-room negotiations. Mycroft was careful with them, never let them drop unceremoniously onto the floor, hung the coat up and twisted the trousers so they hung correctly, creases falling into place, straight and long. 

Mycroft’s ties, bright colored silk, red and blue and green, coiled on the dresser. Greg wrapped them around his wrists when Mycroft wasn’t looking, bound them tightly to him, and let them slip off his arm with a whisper. 

Mycroft’s shirts: soft cotton, starched straight, white or light blue, faint grey pinstripes, stiff collars, perfectly pressed cuffs. Greg wanted to pull the shirts off Mycroft, undo the buttons one by one, push the fabric from his shoulders, run his hands down the skin underneath. 

But Mycroft always undressed alone. 

* 

“Don’t break his heart,” said John over a pint. 

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Shouldn’t it be Sherlock giving this speech?” 

John snorted. “Sherlock spends his spare time coming up with new ways to torment Mycroft. He’s not giving you this speech.” 

“But you are?” 

John shrugged. “What Sherlock doesn’t realize is that if you break Mycroft’s heart – assuming he has one, that is – Mycroft will end up coming to our flat more often, which will further antagonize Sherlock, who will only go deeper into whatever strop he goes into when he can’t touch Mycroft, because if Mycroft’s heart is broken, nothing Sherlock says is going to bother him. So we’ll end up seeing Mycroft more than we do now, and Sherlock will be in a worse mood because of it, and you know who’s going to bear the brunt of _that_?” 

“You?” guessed Greg. 

“I know how to kill a man twenty different ways. I’m pretty sure Sherlock will cover for me.” 

Greg was pretty sure John was right. 

* 

Mycroft had a very set agenda for the progression of their relationship, or at least that portion of the relationship that existed outside the bedroom. All Greg really had to do was follow along, which was easy enough, because Mycroft never proposed anything terribly outlandish. Dinner at a posh restaurant, check. A Sunday picnic in the park, check. An evening cruise down the Thames, check. Tickets to the Philharmonic, check, followed by a solitary ride in the Eye overlooking nighttime London, check. 

In the bedroom, however: it was Greg’s territory. Fingers on skin, lips on lips, tongues on cocks and hair and toes and the crook at the back of Mycroft’s knees, the ticklish patch on the inside of Greg’s elbow. All of these things were Greg’s to explore and to exhibit. Greg led, and Mycroft followed, and it fell into a predictable pattern very quickly. Comfortable, dependable, pleasant, reassuring. Vanilla, and Greg supposed it was meant to make him feel as though he were in control. 

It didn’t. Not really. When Mycroft came, Greg found himself wanting to push him over the edge a little harder. When Greg came, he found himself reaching for a plateau that he couldn’t quite reach. 

It had been a very long time since Greg had been in the beginning of a relationship. And he supposed as relationships went, it was all very proper. A slow build to lay a foundation. All very romantic, all very much meant to woo Greg. 

“Are you done yet?” asked Greg, three-quarters of the way around the Eye, as they slowly descended to London again. 

Mycroft had been explaining, in a great amount of detail, the delicacy of certain international negotiations between two rather territorial countries. He paused. 

“We could change the subject,” he replied, a bit haughtily, and more than a little hurt. 

“That’s what I’m doing,” said Greg. He reached over and loosened Mycroft’s tie. “I want to know if you’ve finished seducing me yet.” 

Mycroft swallowed. His voice was careful, measured, fragile. “I think you’ll find I seduced you some time ago, Detective Inspector Lestrade.” 

“I’m well aware. Which is why I find all of this very nice, but completely beside the point. We could have just gone straight to yours, you know. I’m kind of a sure thing.” 

Greg pulled Mycroft in by his tie; when they kissed, he could feel the motion of the Eye, dropping them down. Mycroft’s quiet, surprised moan in the back of his throat, his mouth opening easily under Greg’s. Greg sank down, down into Mycroft, down below London, down, down, down, down, drown. Drowning in a warm, thick sea of caramel-coffee-splash-of-milk richness, and he didn’t come up for air until he heard, somewhere off in the distance, the sounds of the doors opening, releasing them from the pod and back into the world. 

A cough alerted them both to the presence of the ride’s attendant. “Mr Holmes. Mr Lestrade.” 

Mycroft’s eyes were already open when Greg opened his. He looked at Greg as if he’d never seen anything quite as incredible. “I did not want you to think I was interested in you only for your physical companionship.” 

“Noted,” said Greg, and kissed him quickly, as the attendant waited patiently. “And this was lovely. Both the view and the conversation. Now. Mine or yours?” 

There was only the slightest hesitation in Mycroft, and only Greg would notice it. Mycroft’s house was a mystery – Greg wasn’t even sure it was a house at all. It could very well have been a penthouse flat with a view of the Thames, a great large castle with turrets and a dungeon, a grandiose manor with rolling lawn and shaggy dogs with their tongues perpetually hanging out the sides of their mouths. 

But Mycroft hesitated, just a moment, and Greg felt his heart clench, waiting. 

“Yours,” said Mycroft, and Greg tried not to be disappointed. He tipped the attendant on the way out, because the poor chap’s ears were bright red, and Greg supposed he deserved it. 

* 

The way Sherlock played the violin, Greg could hear the impatience and annoyance. He was half surprised that the instrument didn’t snap in two in Sherlock’s hands, that the bow didn’t slice straight through as Sherlock played. The noise was incredible – not so much for the volume, but for the lack of any resemblance to _music_. It was a jumble of notes, of pacing, of any semblance of rhythm or pattern, and it hurt to hear. 

“How long has he been doing this?” Greg asked John. 

John was buried in the newspaper. “I stopped paying attention an hour ago.” 

The door opened, and Mrs Hudson popped her head in. “Oh, Sherlock, my _shows_ are on,” she exclaimed, watching him with a dismayed face, and Greg, who rather liked Mrs Hudson, had enough. 

“Sherlock!” Greg shouted over the cacophony of violin. “I don’t particularly care if you’re in a strop, but the superintendant wants to see you, and I’ll arrest you if I have to – so are you coming or not?” 

The music stopped abruptly. “If you promise never again to say _anything_ that could possibly remind me of your relationship with my brother, yes.” 

Greg wasn’t aware that he _had_ said anything that could be construed as a reference to his relationship with Mycroft, and couldn’t decide whether or not to roll his eyes or laugh. Somewhere behind him, John shook his newspaper as if to shake the thought out of his mind, and Mrs Hudson clapped her hands together in surprise. 

“Oh, Detective Inspector, are you dating Mycroft?” 

“Yes,” said Greg, a bit warily, as he watched Sherlock put the violin away. “About two months now.” 

“I didn’t think it ran in families,” said Mrs Hudson. “Being gay, I mean.” 

“It doesn’t,” said Sherlock and John simultaneously. They glanced at each other briefly, before burying themselves back into their predetermined ways to avoid the subject. 

“Is he a very nice man to date?” asked Mrs Hudson, sounding a bit worried. 

“Oh, God,” said Sherlock. 

“He’s very attentive,” said Greg. 

“Oh, _God_ ,” groaned Sherlock. 

Maybe it was the years of abuse and derision; Greg didn’t know. But he absolutely relished the silver platter Sherlock had just handed him. “And he’s utterly _fantastic_ in bed.” 

Sherlock slammed the violin case shut and stormed past Greg to the stairs. “I’ll be at the Yard.” 

Greg grinned, a bit cocky now, until he saw the somewhat chastising expression on Mrs Hudson’s face. 

“That wasn’t very nice, now,” she scolded him. 

“No,” said Greg. “But it was fun.” 

John, still behind the newspaper, snorted. 

“ _JOHN_ ,” bellowed Sherlock from below. “Are you coming!?!?” 

John stood up and straightened his jumper, glaring at both Greg and Mrs Hudson, who were trying desperately not to giggle. “Not. One. Word.” 

“Nooooo,” said Greg, but straight faces had long since abandoned him, and as soon as John had left the flat, he burst into laughter. 

“You’re a very bad man,” said Mrs Hudson, but she didn’t sound as if she meant it. “I think Mycroft Holmes is rubbing off on you.” 

And let out a squeak when Greg laughed all the harder. 

* 

At the store, buying shampoo, Greg found his hand hovering over the cheapest bottle, before slowly moving to the more expensive brand on the shelf above it. “Hmm,” Mycroft had said, looking at the bottle the week before. He’d used it, because it was there, but he’d had a sort of dubious look, as if he wasn’t entirely sure of its ability to actually get anything clean. 

Greg wondered what sort of shampoo Mycroft used. He probably didn’t buy it at the local Boots. Wondering when Mycroft would finally invite him to his home was almost too easy, and Greg tried to ignore the thought. 

“Hmm,” Mycroft had said, and nothing else. 

Greg picked up the cheapest shampoo, and dropped it in his basket. 

* 

“Is Lestrade still dating that posh bloke?” 

“Yeah, think so. Wonder they haven’t moved in together yet.” 

* 

“Yours?” said Mycroft as they jogged down the steps outside Prince Albert Hall. 

Greg hesitated, just a moment too long. 

“Of course, it’s late, and you’ve an early morning…” continued Mycroft, already drawing away. 

“No,” said Greg, and he stopped on the steps, the thousand whirling thoughts in his mind coalescing into one. Mycroft stopped just below him, just a hair shorter now. “Yours.” 

Mycroft was in shadow, but Greg could see the thin line of his lips, pressing together in thought. 

“Mine?” 

Greg nodded. 

Mycroft looked away as a noisy group of young people clattered and laughed down the steps. Greg kept his focus squarely on Mycroft, and when the people faded into the night, he looked back at Greg. 

“Mine, then.” 

* 

Mycroft’s town house was not nearly as posh or sophisticated as Greg had thought it would be. After all, a man who wore bespoke suits and carried an umbrella as an affectation and not a precaution surely ought to have lived in a grand estate, complete with heavy draperies and the odd statue or two in the foyer. 

There were certainly heavy draperies in the windows, but nary a statue to be seen. Nor was there a butler waiting to take their things, or a housekeeper offering to make tea. Mycroft removed his coat, and took Greg’s silently; he hung them both in the small cupboard off the dim foyer, lit only by a small table-top lamp which gave an eerie yellow glow to the room. 

The house was quiet; Greg could only dimly hear the traffic from the nearby high street. There was a plush carpet beneath his feet, striped wallpaper fixed to the walls, and a dark staircase leading to the first level. It was understated, simple, and, Greg had no doubt, very expensive. A bit like Mycroft, really, and Greg wondered what he’d see if he turned the lights on a little brighter, what mysteries the dark corners held. 

Mycroft was a strange mix of nervous and overly confident. He was certainly quiet, not saying a word as he glanced around his own house, as if examining it to make sure it had been left just so and was ready for Greg’s inspection. He seemed jittery, however; his fingers tapped on the walls, the furniture, his leg. He rolled his shoulders back as if he couldn’t settle properly into his own skin, and his breathing, whist even and steady, was shallow. 

Greg wasn’t sure what to make of it. He’d never seen Mycroft so disconcerted. Well…not since that first time, back in Greg’s flat, when Mycroft had come out of the lavatory in his boxers. Or in the bedroom, when Mycroft’s powerful exterior was shed, leaving the cautious man beneath. 

Mycroft led the way into the back of the house, bypassing the front room for the kitchen in the rear. He flicked lights on along the way – almost as an afterthought, as if he normally went through his house in the complete dark, which Greg supposed he probably did. The kitchen was small with barely any counter space and a tiny, tall café table with two high chairs. Greg leaned against one, and watched as Mycroft turned on the kettle and set to preparing the tea. 

Mycroft seemed to be at sixes and sevens; he opened the cabinet doors twice in a row, looking for items that weren’t there. He pulled open four drawers before he found the teaspoons. He opened the cabinets a third time to pull out the sugar jar which had been sitting front and center. He found the loose tea first, and almost spooned it directly into the cups, before finding the tea ball and then discarding it in favor of teabags. 

Mycroft fumbled with the packets of tea; Greg wanted to step over and rest his hand on Mycroft’s, kiss his ear and distract him from his discomfort. He didn’t think Mycroft would appreciate it – the man liked his rituals, liked his routines – he took comfort in them, even when he could take comfort in nothing else. “I could help.” 

“Rather inept host, if I let you,” said Mycroft, his voice steady as his body was not, and when the kettle clicked off, poured out the water in a smooth arc. “I’m afraid I don’t have biscuits to go with tea.” 

“I don’t need biscuits.” _Or tea_ , thought Greg, but didn’t say it, because now Mycroft was turning, the delicate china cups balancing on their saucers in either hand. He set them down on the table. 

Greg was about to reach for one, when Mycroft let out a gasp. “ _Milk_.” 

Greg chuckled as Mycroft spun toward to the fridge, and pulled out a small carton of milk. “You don’t invite people over often, do you?” asked Greg. 

Mycroft stood taller: a reminder of something. “No. You…you’re the first.” 

“I’m honored, then,” said Greg after a moment, and watched as Mycroft poured the milk into his teacup in a thick, creamy ribbon. “Wait. What about Sherlock?” 

“The first who mattered, I mean to say.” 

_Oh._

Mycroft put the milk back in the fridge. By the time he had turned around, Greg had slipped off the stool, and was standing behind him. 

“The tea…” 

“I don’t want tea,” said Greg, and reached up to kiss him. In his own kitchen, Mycroft was hesitant, uncertain, quick and evasive, but Greg, above all things, was patient. Coaxing little kisses, gentle brushes of his fingers over Mycroft’s skin, and Mycroft settled, wrapped his arms around Greg, responded to the kisses with increasing fervor and enthusiasm. 

It was almost instinctive, the slow glide across the floor to the little pocket stairs leading up into the rest of the house. Greg stepped backwards onto the first step, giving him that much height over Mycroft, and he smoothed Mycroft’s hair back from his face, where it’d fallen, tousled from their gropings. 

“This all right?” murmured Greg. 

“I’ve never—" Mycroft’s voice trembled, careful, cautious. His eyes were focused on Greg. “In this house. That is.” 

“We could stop.” 

“No,” said Mycroft, and pushed against him lightly, just enough that Greg understood it was to move him up the stairs, which led directly into a small dressing room, no doubt Mycroft’s own. There was a small desk and chair against one wall, almost an afterthought, but with a telephone and desk calendar placed just so. A cushion-covered chair sat next to the window overlooking the back garden. It was close and comfortable, an unexpected space within a house that seemed full of open corners. 

“Vestiges of more indulgent eras,” explained Mycroft with a smile, and pulled Greg into the bedroom. Moonlight and ambient light from the back garden poured in through the windows, and Mycroft switched on a small lamp on the nearest dressing table, allowing Greg to really see where they were. 

Darkly patterned wallpaper in deep aubergine; rich, thick chocolate-colored carpet under his feet; a bed, opulent with velvety duvet and cushions and four posters, easily large enough for two grown men to share. 

Mycroft pulled Greg to him, his warm body close and hard and solid against Greg, and Greg saw the last of the hesitancy in Mycroft’s eyes, the way his hands held lightly to Greg, as if to give him leave to flee if desired. 

“It’s a beautiful house.” 

“I rarely have guests. I rarely have anyone here at all.” 

“Do you have servants?” asked Greg. 

“No, not as such. A housekeeper, but I rarely see her. Not live-in.” 

“Then it’s just us?” 

“Just us,” confirmed Mycroft. 

“Good,” said Greg, and pushed Mycroft back to the bed. 

* 

Greg thought about going home afterwards. For about two seconds, until Mycroft rested his hand on his stomach, fingers curled in relaxation. 

“Stay,” murmured Mycroft. 

“All right,” said Greg, and rested his hand atop Mycroft’s. 

* 

The morning was a rush. Greg was thrown from his routine, without much concept of how long it would take to get to work, and he could tell that Mycroft was a bit skittish with him being there as well. Not that Mycroft would _admit_ to it; the man was still a gracious host, offering Greg tea, extra towels, jam for his toast, a kiss, a cuddle, a razor, a toothbrush. Greg might have spent the night at an incredibly swanky B &B, for all of Mycroft’s attentiveness. 

“Socks,” muttered Greg, looking under the massive bed. His suit, his shirt, his trousers and his pants had all been located – the prospect of the walk of shame would have been more damning if Greg didn’t know he had extra clothes tucked in his office behind the door – but he didn’t keep an extra pair of socks there, and of course it was the one item of clothing he couldn’t locate. 

“Mycroft,” Greg called, but the word was barely out of his mouth when he heard the shower start up, and Greg sighed in frustration, running his fingers through his hair when he spied the dresser on the far side of the room. Mycroft had already offered Greg use of nearly everything he owned; surely the man wouldn’t begrudge him a pair of socks for the day. 

Assuming he could find them, of course. Greg had done plenty of house investigations in his day; he had never once seen a dresser that did not contain socks in the top-most drawer. Mycroft seemed to be the exception to the rule: handkerchiefs. Greg worked his way down. Undershirts. Pants. Pajamas. 

And there, on the bottom, socks. 

Greg reached in for a tightly rolled pair, and when his fingers brushed something that was smoother and cooler than the expected thin wool, he froze. 

He ignored the socks, and instead pulled out the item they’d concealed below. 

A roll of fabric, shaped a little like an hourglass, and with cream-colored ribbons wrapped round the thinnest section at the middle to keep it from unraveling. Smooth cream-colored cotton, heavily textured in a ribeye pattern. Bright brass grommets shone along the exposed edge. The item was heavy, but not terribly so; flexible to an extent but still rigid in that it remained stiff, standing straight out from either side of where Greg held it in his hand. Greg could even feel the thin, flexible but sturdy bones inside which helped the item keep its shape. 

He carefully unwrapped the ribbons from around the roll, and it opened on his lap. 

Greg was a man of the 20th and 21st century. He had a basic understanding of women’s clothing; had been dragged through the historical fashion exhibit at one time or another by various dates, but apart from wondering why anyone would actually want to become a slave to fashion if it meant wearing excessively uncomfortable clothing, or how to remove a bra one-handed, hadn’t ever really made a study of women’s underclothes. 

Therefore, it took him a few moments to recognize what it was he had just pulled out of Mycroft’s sock drawer. 

A corset. Creamy white, simple, used but still in very good condition. The ribbons were only slightly frayed at the edges, the bones were visible only in the way they contorted the fabric into slight curves and rises as the corset lay rolled out, exposed, on the ground. 

By the time Greg was able to put a name to the thing, he also realized that the shower had long since stopped running. 

Greg didn’t have to look around to know that Mycroft was in the bedroom. The house was too eerily silent for that. Mycroft was quiet, to be sure, but no one was quite _that_ quiet, not in that particular tone of worry. 

“Greg,” said Mycroft, sounding strangled. 

All at once, Greg could picture it. Mycroft, his hands trailing down the fabric as it clung securely to the curves of a body, the quick gasp of pleasure that accompanied the stroke, Mycroft’s hand, sure and steady, wrapping around the waist, his fingers wrapped in the ribbon left over from the lacing. 

Mycroft, tenderly rolling the treasured item, setting it in a drawer, safe from prying eyes, but somewhere he would see every day, fingers brushing against it. Just enough to remember, to recognize, a whiff of memory… 

As if Greg hadn’t done the same with a pair of stockings that had accidentally left the house with him, instead of staying safe in his ex-wife’s drawer at home. 

“You know,” said Greg steadily, sure that Mycroft could read everything he wasn’t actually saying, “I didn’t know you’d been married.” 

“I wasn’t,” said Mycroft carefully. 

“Not that it matters. Whoever it was.” Greg started to roll the corset back up again. “Just…I wish you’d told me. I thought I was…well, I’m not. Like I said. Not that it matters to anyone.” 

Mycroft’s hand fell on his shoulder. 

“Gregory.” He sounded pained, a little, and Greg couldn’t help but think, Good. 

“I was looking for socks.” 

“I should have told you before. I didn’t mean you to find out this way.” 

“Well, it’s done now,” said Greg as he wrapped the ribbons around the rolled-up corset, a bit viciously. “We don’t have to talk about her. We don’t have to mention her again.” 

“You misunderstand,” said Mycroft, and he reached for Greg’s cheek to pull him in for a kiss. Greg’s stomach lurched; he managed to pull away, and then Mycroft caught him again, hand at the back of Greg’s neck, and held him close. “You weren’t the first, but you knew that. However, it’s not what you think.” 

“I’m sorry I snooped,” said Greg, and he meant it, badly. 

Mycroft, however, said, “The corset is mine.” 

Greg didn’t quite comprehend him. “Of course it’s yours, she left it here…” 

“No, Greg. The corset is…” Mycroft reached out and took the corset from him. He held it gently in his hands for a moment, breathing hard, as if steeling himself for what came next. “Mine. It’s for me. No one else has worn it.” 

The ribbons trailing down under Mycroft’s suit jacket. The way Mycroft pulled away when Greg touched his waist. How Mycroft almost always undressed out of sight… 

Mycroft wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were hidden beneath his lashes, looking down to the fabric between them, and that, more than anything, convinced Greg of what he was saying. 

Sherlock, taunting Mycroft about his weight. The way Mycroft never responded to him with anything but a smirk and a stiffening of the spine. 

“You don’t need it,” said Greg roughly. “You’re perfect, exactly the way you are.” 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I know you think so…” 

“I _know_ so. Your brother is an arse, you’re not overweight. You don’t need this to make yourself attractive. You’re already attractive.” 

Mycroft had begun to smile, just a little, and Greg set his hand on the corset and pushed it down from where he held it between them, like a little rolled-up shield. The kiss that followed was insistent, solid, and Greg hoped it was enough to reassure Mycroft that he wasn’t all talk in that moment. 

They broke apart, breathing hard, Greg’s hand on the back of Mycroft’s neck, holding him close, holding him steady. Greg rested his forehead on Mycroft’s and tried to remember he was meant to be going to work soon. 

“Oh,” said Mycroft, a bit dazed, his breath soft against Greg’s cheek. 

“So,” said Greg firmly, his voice rough. “You can throw it out, yeah?” 

“No,” said Mycroft. 

Greg frowned. 

“While I assure you that it’s eminently reassuring to know you find me attractive regardless of my actual appearance—" 

“Mycroft…” 

“The reason I wear the corset has nothing to do with personal vanity.” 

“Then, why…?” 

Mycroft stepped back – not out of any sense of embarrassment, but simply to unfurl the corset in his hands. His fingers were gentle as he unwrapped the twisted ribbons from the roll and carefully laid it out flat between them. 

“Help me put it on,” said Mycroft. 

“Mycroft…” 

“Please.” 

His voice was small in a way that Greg didn’t quite recognize. Nothing about Mycroft suggested _small_ – Mycroft, while not as overweight as Sherlock would have liked everyone to believe, was far from lithe, and certainly he wielded a great amount of power, or at least carried himself as if he did. But that single word did something to the way Greg saw him just then: a man, quietly standing, shoulders hunched, his eyes hungry and hoping. He held the corset flat on his outstretched hands, palms up, and Greg could see the tremor there, the slight worry and concern that perhaps Greg wouldn’t comply. That this request would be too much. 

It wasn’t that hard a request, was it? Greg had seen a lot of strange things in his career: a bloke wearing a corset was the least of them. Bloody hell, a bloke in a corset was _tame_. Not quite vanilla, of course, but…Greg thought of the young girls he’d seen walking the streets late at night, the photographs left over from a hundred years before of women with impossibly tiny waists. Greg had put his hands together once, upon learning that the width of his hands circled was supposedly the Victorian ideal for the circumference of a waist, and he’d been sick at the thought. 

The idea of _Mycroft_ , willingly doing such a thing to himself… 

Worse, Greg doing it _to_ him. 

Greg picked up the corset from Mycroft’s hands. It was sturdier than the ones he’d handled before, for girlfriends long past, in the heady days of uni when the girls were daring and wanted to play a little bit. Those were flimsy things, with soft bones and thin, silky black fabrics that weren’t meant to do anything but provide a sort of sexy overlay to skin. Greg had never been as impressed as the girls had wanted – he’d much rather have had access to the skin the black corselets had shrouded. 

This corset was made of heavy, soft cream-colored cotton with a raised pattern. Not floral – that would have been ridiculous – but a forest-pattern of branches, leaves, thorns, rough bark. The bones were thin but solid, bending just enough to provide flexibility but still sturdy enough to provide structure. They were cased within the body of the corset – no seams or folds of fabric to cause the wearer undue discomfort. Familiar silk ribbons laced through bright brass grommets, tied at the top with a sturdy knot – hooks and eyes along the front of the corset provided a way in and out without disturbing the ties. Not a tag to be seen anywhere, and a single line of eyes – clearly the corset had been made for Mycroft’s body, and no other. 

Greg weighed the thing on his hands. Light. A few ounces, no more. He glanced up at Mycroft, who watched him. His mouth was closed, his eyes were dark, and Greg could tell by the way his jaw moved that he was worrying the inside half of his lower lip between his teeth. Greg swung the corset from one hand, and in a swift move that was smoother than his experience would have had anyone believe, wrapped it around Mycroft’s back. 

Mycroft never moved his eyes from Greg’s. Greg caught the other side of the corset in his free hand, and pulled it around Mycroft’s torso. He was ready to pull it tightly around in order to fasten it at Mycroft’s sternum, and to his great surprise, he overlapped the hooks and eyes by at least two centimeters. Mycroft sucked in a breath and held it. 

Greg loosened the fabric, and Mycroft released the breath, without saying a word. 

Hook, eye. Hook, eye. One by one, from top to bottom, Greg fastened the corset. It wasn’t too tight – in fact, it wasn’t tight at all, not really. Just enough to remain in place, to keep it from shifting. Mycroft breathed normally as Greg worked; and in fact, his breaths grew less shallow, less hurried. His pulse slowed, his skin grew rosy, and by the time Greg had reached the base of the corset, just at the top of his hips, Mycroft’s hands were resting on his biceps, pressing against his skin, massaging the muscles, his palms warm and slightly damp from the shower. 

When he was finished, he lifted his eyes back up to Mycroft’s to find them dilated. Mycroft’s lips were parted, and he stared at Greg as if there was nothing more delicious and desirable in the entire world. 

The kiss was soft at first. Mycroft pressed his lips against his: blessing and benediction and a silent _thank-you_. His lips were warm, confident, sure in their reception and appreciation, and Greg was drawn closer to Mycroft, until he could feel the thin metal wires of the hook-and-eyes press against his thin t-shirt. He broke for air, only briefly, and Mycroft’s lips swooped back down in an open-mouthed kiss, unwilling to release him just yet, and Greg’s breath caught in his throat as Mycroft kissed him, ran his tongue over Greg’s lips and teeth and tongue as he ran his fingers up and down his back, across his shoulders. 

Greg was lost under Mycroft’s ministrations, his mind swirling and swimming. The corset dug into his skin under his shirt, a constant reminder, pinning him against Mycroft. Greg didn’t think he could step away if he’d wanted. Not that he wanted to step away – not in the least, because Mycroft, kissing him, was commanding and forceful and _powerful_ in a way that Greg hadn’t seen from him before. Not in the bedroom, at least. This was the Mycroft who ordered off the menu in French; this was the Mycroft who hummed along with the Wagner concerto; this was the Mycroft who strode confidently into dark alleys to push Greg against the brickwork, to claim him with kisses. Greg clung to Mycroft’s shoulders, desperate to remain upright, and tried to keep breathing. It was the only thing to do. 

Mycroft moved his mouth from Greg’s lips to his jaw, and down that line to the skin under his ear. Each kiss was feather-light but held such possession in it that Greg thought he was being branded. When Mycroft sucked on the thin skin under his earlobe, he leaned his head back and away, allowing Mycroft the access. Allowing Mycroft the moment, the kiss, the ownership, the everything, and Mycroft took it with a rumble in his chest that might have been laughter. 

“Do you understand now?” said Mycroft into Greg’s ear. “The corset has _nothing_ to do with how others perceive my waistline. The only person whose opinion matters on that measurement, to me, is yours, and I have long known what you thought of me without my clothes.” 

Greg couldn’t speak. He could barely open his eyes. 

“It’s about what wearing it does to me, for me. It is everything to do with how others perceive _me_. When I wear it – I hesitate to call it armor, because of course it isn’t quite so sturdy. A bullet could easily pass through it. When you touch me—" Mycroft took Greg’s hand in his, moved it to his waist, and pressed it against the fabric there. The cotton ribs were mountains and valleys to Greg’s overly sensitive fingertips; he could feel the heat from Mycroft’s body scalding them. “I can feel your fingers press against my skin, and it only makes me long for you more.” 

“Fuck,” whispered Greg, and tore his hand out from under Mycroft’s, reached up to cradle his chin between his hands and kissed him, hungry and wanting. Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg tightly, nearly lifting him off the ground – at least lifting Greg to his toes, and Greg pushed with all his might against Mycroft, until he stumbled backwards, and fell on the bed with a bounce, Greg landing on top of him. 

“You understand,” said Mycroft. 

“Shut up,” said Greg, and nipped at Mycroft’s lower lip, extending it to let it snap back. He worked at Mycroft’s skin, all the way down to Mycroft’s neck, to the sensitive area at the base of Mycroft’s throat. There was a small gap now between the top of the corset and Mycroft’s skin; Greg licked the skin there, his tongue just hitting Mycroft’s nipples, which started to grow hard and pearly with damp. 

Mycroft stretched beneath him, his torso elongating and pulling taut; and with a rush of air, Greg was on his back, with Mycroft above him, weighing him down into the mattress. Mycroft’s hands wrapped around Greg’s ribcage, his lips dropped light kisses onto Greg’s cheeks and forehead and chin, down to his neck and his collarbone. Greg laughed softly, stretched his arms above him, and exposed his neck for Mycroft to taste. 

“Who’s in charge here?” he asked lightly, and was a bit surprised to hear Mycroft growl in response. “Oi—" 

“Hush.” Mycroft’s voice was rough – not quite angry, but Greg’s stomach twisted with it. His heart beat faster at the sound of it, and faster still when Mycroft latched his teeth gently onto Greg’s skin. Not enough to bite, not really – barely enough that Greg could feel the prick of his teeth, but just enough that Greg knew that Mycroft _could_. “You are wearing entirely too much clothing.” 

“Do something about that, then,” whispered Greg, and he lifted his hips so that Mycroft could pull down his pants. Greg half thought Mycroft would kiss his way back up, maybe settle on his cock for a bit, but Mycroft had other ideas. The moment Greg’s legs were free, Mycroft shoved them apart, and settled himself between them, and lowered himself to let his mouth settle not on Greg’s cock, but on the pucker of skin resting below his balls. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” breathed Greg, but Mycroft’s hands held his hips firmly, tilting them up even, and Greg pressed the back of his head into the mattress as he was licked and kissed, and Mycroft ran his tongue along the super-sensitive skin. Words failed entirely when Mycroft’s hand found his cock and began to stroke in time. “My…uhhhhhh.” 

“Do you see now?” whispered Mycroft before delving back down again. 

Greg saw everything. Greg saw nothing at all. Greg’s eyes were alternately wide open in shock, and screwed shut in pleasure. He was spread wide open, he was spinning out of control, he was at Mycroft’s mercy and utterly in love with it. He gripped at the sheets on the bed, nearly pulled them off the mattress, gasped for air when he forgot to breathe, prayed to every god he’d ever learned about for the feel of Mycroft’s tongue on him both to stop and to keep going forever. 

Mycroft gave him one last, sucking kiss, and then pulled away. Greg moaned in disappointment, and didn’t care. He was pliant as Mycroft moved his legs up, only dimly aware of what was happening to his body. When Mycroft settled on top of him again, Greg wrapped his arms around his lover in an automatic movement. His fingers brushed against the corset, smooth, and Greg slid his hands across it, unable to find a place to settle. 

Every nerve in Greg’s body was unsettled, sparking, nervous jerks and half-made promises. Mycroft stayed still above him, waiting, and Greg strained up toward him, anxious. “Mycroft…” 

But Mycroft said nothing, pressed his closed lips into the skin at the base of Greg’s throat. They were cool against Greg’s fevered skin, and Greg pushed up into him, wishing for half the control Mycroft exhibited. He couldn’t reach him; Mycroft held himself up, just out of reach, and when Greg tried to pull him down again, Mycroft grabbed his hands in his own, and laced their fingers together, and pushed the backs of Greg’s hands into the mattress beside his head. 

“Mycroft…” 

“Answer the question,” whispered Mycroft, and nuzzled the skin under Greg’s ear. 

Greg’s mind raced in twenty directions. Question? 

Mycroft chuckled. Leave it to the bastard to read Greg even in bed, even when Greg couldn’t read himself. “Do you see? Why I wear this corset?” 

Mycroft opened his mouth, breathed kisses across Greg’s throat, at the top of his chest: just that, breathing, brushing his wet lips and leaving a faint trail on Greg’s skin. 

“You,” said Greg, unable to think. 

“Yes?” 

“Fuck me,” stammered Greg. “ _Please_.” 

Every nerve was firing, every atom in Greg was quivering and spinning, vibrating just out of sync with the rest of the universe. When Mycroft’s cock slid into Greg, everything stilled. Greg stared at Mycroft above him. He curled his fingers around Mycroft’s, and Mycroft began to move within him: slow, even strokes that let Greg find his breath again, set his heart to their rhythm. Greg slid his hands out from under Mycroft’s fingers – but now his movements were no longer frantic. Steady and sure, Greg found the cream-colored ribbons on the back of the corset, wrapped his fingers in their weave, and pulled Mycroft close. 

It built slowly, a molten warmth, a pool of chocolate-caramel comfort where Mycroft was deep within him. It coated him from inside, reaching out with rivulets of liquid, sugary-sweet heat until every nerve in Greg’s body, from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes, were hot and wet and alive. Greg wrapped himself around Mycroft, tucked his head under his chin, and with every thrust, he dug a little deeper into Mycroft’s skin, let out another huff of breath, another gasping moan. 

And _there_ , there it was, that point which Greg could see, had always seen, could never quite reach, as Mycroft pushed into him, covered him, wrapped warm around him, and Greg felt himself spreading thin, his nerves popping and sizzling and every thought in his head exploded into nothing as the pleasure burst over him, sugar-bright firecracker caramel icing so sweet it almost hurt him from tip to toe. 

Greg came, spread beneath Mycroft, stretched beneath him, spilled out a rivulet of cream that splattered across their stomachs. Mycroft followed, a moment later, with quick breaths and a shudder that went through his body and into Greg’s own. They quivered together, catching their breaths for each other, as the cooled air around them gently seeped into their overheated bodies, as the aftershocks pulsed through them, coming down from the honey-high of their coming together. 

Fingers over fevered, sweat-damp skin. Shivers and smiles, unintended tickles. Greg felt the silky smooth fabric on Mycroft’s body, and stilled his hand over the fabric, felt the warmth radiated by the body it covered. He opened his eyes and saw Mycroft’s head pillowed next to his, his body still a comforting weight over him. 

Mycroft’s gaze was open, unquestioning, unconcerned: relaxed. As if everything necessary had been said already, that everything was understood. 

Greg supposed it was. 

* 

Greg had lived his entire life thinking himself vanilla. Basic, simple, plain, unassuming. The forgotten flavor at the back of the freezer, passed over in lieu of salted caramel, chocolate-covered espresso, candyfloss, fresh-picked strawberries and cream. 

Vanilla was boring. Vanilla was plain. Vanilla was entirely overrated, whether it was artificial, French, or flecked with beans. Add egg yolks or chocolate chips: it was still vanilla. 

Mycroft’s arm around Greg’s waist, his leg draped over his. Warmth at his back, a heavy and hard reminder at the cleft of Greg’s buttocks. A snuffling kiss at the back of Greg’s neck, breath tickling the edge of Greg’s hairline. 

A vanilla-colored corset, draped over a chair on the far side of the room, its cream-colored ribbons trailing down to the floor. 

Greg closed his eyes. Mycroft’s hand was on his stomach. Greg rested his hand over it. 

Vanilla was the base. Vanilla was the starting point. Vanilla was what made all other flavors sing. 

“Do you understand?” Mycroft had asked, and Greg said, “Yes.”


End file.
